Sarah vs Constants
by chasingfireflies
Summary: She realised just how deep, and sensitive, and meaningful, and comforting, and gorgeous, and not-nerdy Chuck could be. - oneshot, subtle Charah.


**Disclaimer: If I owned the gorram series, I wouldn't be such an obsessed nut, would I?**

**Funny that I wrote this after only three episodes.**

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A nerd he may have been – in fact, there was no denying it _what_soever – but he would never cease to amaze her.

What at first she'd thought would annoy her soon became endearing (and this should have warned her that she was getting in too deep, but she always believed she had complete control over herself anyway). Soon she'd been dragged to his level, watching Serenity for the twentieth time (suffice to say, she could now quote half the movie) and spending her spare time honing her Halo skills on the boy's X-box. Far from zoning her out, she could half follow the 'geek-speak' by then, and she knew half the things he meant in his silences.

While some part of her realised this wasn't right – in some ways, downright wrong – she found herself spending moments of her time apart from the CIA. As time progressed, those moments became longer, until she was even so far as leaving _Agent _Sarah Walker behind for hours at a time. _Agent _Sarah Walker would have insisted on more distance from him, and his friends, and his family. But she ignored this as best she could, because _just_-Sarah liked feeling normal, and _just_-Sarah enjoyed going over for Ellie Bartowski's famous pancakes in the mornings.

It was in one of these moments – _just_-Sarah and Chuck – on the beach on a Sunday evening, that she realised just how deep, and sensitive, and meaningful, and comforting, and _gorgeous_, and _not_-nerdy Chuck could be. He'd taken her to the beach, or she'd taken him there - she couldn't quite remember - but it was to save her from the Ellie-Devon wedding planning session going on at his place.

Not to say that the whole wedding thing didn't excited her – it did – she just hadn't been in a good mood at all that day, and Chuck knew her well enough for that. She was thankful for that, while she was wary.

They hadn't spoken much while they were there – he seemed to understand her desire for silence. So they'd watched the sunset with no noise but the crash of the waves while darkness fell, only the two of them on the beach.

She tried not to think of it too often, but every ten minutes or so she found herself crucially aware of the fact that he was sitting at their 'safe-distance' – closer than friends, not quite lovers (the way their entire relationship seemed to go). It was another silent agreement between them, she realised (not that they fully _agreed_ - he was constantly testing the boundaries, whether he knew it or not).

It was because of this that she realised that the most of their relationship moved in silences.

As soon as that thought entered her mind, she couldn't get it out, and it would prove to infuriate her to no end. It wasn't like they never talked, after all – she could remember his voice and every little change in it that showed what he was feeling. But even then, she realised that she couldn't remember much properly said between them.

Sure, he spoke to her – he seemed to make it his business to do so. But she was unresponsive more than ninety percent of the time, because she wasn't _supposed _to get close to him, and he wasn't supposed to get to know her (god forbid he _want _to), and above all of that, she didn't know if there was much left of her to share. But, over time, he'd come to speak for her, supplying the long-winded, rambled conversations that she didn't even have to listen to, but she would.

He did it to save her from having to supply any of the awkward replies or the silence, she thought – the awkwardness, the pressure. Of course, that was before the times when the tension between the two of them started getting harder and harder to ignore, and their conversation had tapered off.

_Silence_.

As soon as she realised it, she knew she was sick of it. Even the small comforts in their quiet moments couldn't stop it from annoying her – she knew things about him, deep things, and he knew next to nothing about her, even after _months_. But more than that, she _wanted _to talk to him, and spill her heart, even if the words seemed random and pointless.

So, somehow, she'd started talking, or _he'd _started talking – again, she couldn't be sure who, or how, or when – and their conversation was soft, barely heard over the wash of the waves, spoken on an empty beach in the dark. As such, she couldn't quite remember how they'd started, either, but she remembered laughing when he asked her the most mundane, _normal _thing in history.

"…How was your day?"

She couldn't help the light sound from escaping her lips, the slow smile creeping across her features. That something so simple would amuse her so, lift her right up and have her smiling, amazed her. But of course, it was Chuck who'd said it, so it shouldn't have been quite so surprising.

"I think you could guess. It was just a… generally bad day."

"And Sarah Walker's not used to generally bad days," he commented gently, humoured. "Why do you think we're here?

She turned to look at him, thoughtful, but he was looking out to the water and the faint stars where the sky met the sea.

"How could you tell?"

"Believe it or not," he said quietly. "I do like to say I know a bit about you. Even if it is only that you don't like olives and you always want me to stay in the car – not that I ever actually-" wherein he turned to look at her slowly, catching her azure gaze, "-have…"

He trailed off for a moment, and she pursed her lips to stop herself from smiling. At the very least, he spoke truths.

"…But I do know you," he insisted simply, giving her a small shrug. He turned his gaze to his hands, splayed out, and palms upward, on his knees. "I know your smile when you're relaxed, and the difference between your 'oh-my-god-that's-actually-funny' laugh, and the one you use when you're putting it on." He pursed his lips at the thought, before correcting himself. "Otherwise engaged." She frowned at the job reference. "I can tell the difference between meaning what you say, and lying through your teeth-"

She made a small disagreeing sound and he gave her a wry smile.

"Don't give me that," he said. "I just try not to notice. An expert you may be, Sarah Walker – one of the best – but even _you _can't stop people from seeing who you are. Not when they care to take notice."

He turned his eyes to her, and she stared him down, eyes flashing, daring him to continue. Instead, he just smiled right back at her.

"Been _observing_, have you?" she asked, and she was unable to mask the subtle humour in her tone. He grinned.

"What do you think I do on our fake dates? Focus on the pizza?"

She grinned at this little game of answering questions with questions, knowing it wasn't getting them far. He, evidently, knew this too, because he reassured her of the earlier point.

"I know you," he repeated firmly, quietly. "So I know when you've had a bad day."

She couldn't seem to stop herself from asking the next question – she'd let it past her lips before it fully registered in her mind. She saw him frown at her.

"Why would you _want _to know me?"

His warm eyes locked solidly on her again, and she found she was holding her breath with the intensity of his gaze – not the most common Sarah Walker occurrence, but she was _just_-Sarah right at that moment. She exhaled shakily, slightly angry with herself for letting him have that effect on her. He merely sighed.

"I don't think you see yourself as you should," he told her, frowning slightly. She glanced away, fixing her eyes on the sand, unable to meet his gaze again. "I don't know… what it is you see in yourself. But there's something in you that you clearly don't like and can't see past, and I wish that you could. I want you to see, when you look at yourself, what I see when I look at you."

He put one hand on her shoulder, and it was distracting – he was being difficult again, moving their safe-distance to a null zone. This was ridiculous. His hand on her shoulder was completely justified. It didn't exceed their carefully placed boundaries – not at all. But it meant so much more to her for some unnameable reason. And because she was so preoccupied with that thought, more words were tumbling past her lips without a thought, things she regretted as soon as she said them.

"What do you see?" she asked, her tone small and (she was scandalised) hopeless. She bit her lip. It was moments like these she hated not being the agent, wished she hadn't sunken into just-Sarah mode. He merely squeezed her shoulder gently and her eyes snapped back to his of their own accord.

"I see a beautiful young woman, with a striking personality, and a smile that can light up a room, strong, and independent, dedicated, and gorgeous," he said, staring straight back at her with a gentle smile on his lips. She focused on her own breathing, wondering what happened to shy, nerdy Chuck, who stuttered around her and feared saying the wrong thing. This Chuck was too close for comfort, too close for their safety-zone. "I see _you_, Sarah."

"I – I…" she stuttered, and she cursed herself for her just-Sarah-ness. He gave her shoulder another quick squeeze before taking his hand back and setting her boundaries right. His lips moved into his trademark grin before he replied to her incoherent statement.

"You're aces, Sarah," he said simply, and her tension subsided at the familiar comment while she tried to ignore his previous description. She couldn't stop her smile. "Aces," he repeated. "I want you to see that."

Her gaze moved to the water again, avoiding his eyes, determined not to let him see what she was thinking. They sunk into silence.

She gritted her teeth, searching her mind for another topic, ignoring the evident flush on her cheeks from his comments. Minutes passed without anything coming to mind other than her need to hear his voice, even if he had nothing to say. She needed noise.

"Ask me something," she said quietly, almost pleading, and she felt his eyes on her, curious. He was speechless for a couple of minutes, trying to thing of something, and it was infuriating.

"What do you want me to ask?"

He was cautious, confused, and she realised with some relief that his sensitive moment was gone. He was just nerdy Chuck again - she was safe. She let out a small sigh, laying her chin on her arms, folded on her knees.

"Something – _anything_," she said. "It's been too quiet."

"Constant," he replied absent-mindedly. She frowned at the word, but he'd moved on before she had the chance to question him on it. His next words had her rethinking her earlier thought that his sensitive moment was over – it was right back again, and their awkward tension was right back with it. He didn't seem to mind. "If you weren't in the CIA," he started thoughtfully, and she swallowed cautiously, suddenly doubtful – those types of questions were dangerous. "What do you think you'd be doing?"

She paused warily, and when she spoke the tension showed clearly in her voice.

"…In what aspect?"

He shrugged, and she could see him smirking from the corner of her eyes, she turned her head to see him properly, and her eyes narrowed.

"Job, home, _life_," he said loosely. "I don't know. Where would you be? What would you be doing? Do you think you'd be with a guy, or married, or planning your perfect wedding? Do you even _have _a perfect wedding?"

She pursed her lips. They were moving into dangerous territory now.

"No," she said stiffly. "I don't."

"Why not?" he asked, his tone naïve, innocent. She frowned.

There was no logical, plausible reason not to answer, and she had a feeling that he knew this as well. This wasn't a fact he could ever use against her, he was just being regular old Chuck – he just wanted to understand. It wasn't vital information, anyway, and it didn't endanger the agent in her. Moreover, some part of her wanted him to know.

"I… over time…" she started uncertainly. "…I figured out that thinking things like that… it's just something I can't have. There's little point in me wishing, Because the likelihood of me finding someone or something in life that I love, and that returns that, is so small, and even if I did, I'd be reassigned – off to some other part of the world before I could even say goodbye… What's the point of dreaming of something if I'll never have it."

She could hear him let out a stubborn breath before he replied.

"What else have you got to get you through?" he asked her rhetorically. "You do a hard job in a hard life, Sarah. But you won't be an agent forever-"

"Says who!" she protested, but then his hand was on her shoulder again. She wondered if he realised just how that affected her – not calming as intended, but rather distracting her entirely.

"Says me," he told her calmly. "I can see how unhappy you are – not with your job, because you love you job – but with the things it's had you do."

"You wouldn't know-"

"I think I do," he said, again strangely sure of himself. "I think you hate it – hate remembering it – and hate the fact that you feel such a thrill on those missions. I think it keeps you up at night, and haunts your dreams when you get to sleep. I think I tears you apart inside, ever so slowly."

He took her silence as a confirmation.

"One day, Sarah, and I'm not saying now," he explained. "But one day you're going to get tired and want something else. You won't want to be a field agent anymore – you'll want a home, and a family with that one guy who loves _all _off you – good _and _bad. You'll want that perfect wedding."

"…I don't think you know me very well," she contradicted stubbornly, disbelieving.

"Better than you give me credit for," he said dryly. His hand left her shoulder, and she found herself immediately missing the small contact and warmth. "Think about it. Don't you believe there's a guy out there for you? Believe you'd love him, and him you?"

"I believe in lust," she told him, her entire body going tense. "I believe in wanting to be with someone. I don't believe in falling in love. But of course, _you _would."

"Then it's _you _who doesn't know _me _very well," he replied stiffly. She felt her heart skip a beat. "I don't believe in falling in love, Sarah."

"…I thought…"

"William Shakespeare once wrote," he said, his voice louder than any of the rest of their conversation, cutting her off to make a point. She sat up straighter, staring tensely out to the water. Guys who quoted Shakespeare were few and far between – the heroes and kings of the old romantics. She didn't know if she could deal with that from him.

"_Let me not, to the marriage of true minds,  
__admit impediments. Love is not love  
__which alters when it alteration finds,  
__or bends with the remover to remove.  
__O no, it is an ever-fixed mark that  
__looks on tempests and is never shaken;  
__it is the star to every wandering bark,  
__whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.  
__Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks  
__within his bending sickle's compass come.  
__Love alters not with brief hours and weeks, but  
__bears it out even to the edge of doom.  
__If this be error, and upon me proved,  
__I never writ, nor no man ever loved._"

When he stopped speaking, Sarah found she was holding her breath for his next words, waiting for his point. His silence dragged on while he carefully chose his words.

"…He said love - _true _love," he clarified, his words softer now. "It isn't some insignificant, passing thing. It's lasting, and it's solid – it doesn't change just because the things around you do. It doesn't waver, or disappear, just because you're faced with problems. It doesn't fade away just because you get older. It's fixed, it's solid, and it doesn't change – it's the bright part of someone's life, brings them back on their path in life when they're lost. It's endless."

This left her breathless.

"That's what Shakespeare wrote," he repeated gently, and she turned to him again, immediately caught by his eyes. "_That's _what I believe."

"That's not saying you don't believe in falling in love," she pointed out dully.

He smiled softly, giving her a small nod of agreement. He took a small breath before answering her, and the agent in her was telling her every possible way of stopping his speech or escaping from him before his charming words really pulled her in too deep, because some part of that nerd was completely irresistible, and that scared her. Of course, the woman in her insisted to hear his warm words, urged her to hear him, _know_ him.

She was far too into just-Sarah mode for the agent in her to matter.

"You caught me," he admitted, looking out to the water and dropping sand through his fingers. "You're right. I said I believe in love. But I don't believe in falling into it."

"You don't?" she asked. She'd forgotten her cautiousness, now just genuinely curious to his way of thinking.

"No," he said simply. "I believe love – as such a powerful, unchanging thing – isn't something you just stumble upon one day."

"But you believe in love," she said back to him, sufficiently confused. "And you believe in being _in_ love. You just don't believe in _falling _in it."

He nodded.

"I believe in constants."

"How d'you figure?"

"Love, as written, is a constant," he said. "Family, waking up day after day, Ellie looking after me, Morgan's lack of salesmanship, and Casey's general personality – all constants. Those things that don't change. You can't escape constants. The silence between us – that seems pretty constant too. You telling me to stay in the car-"

"You _not _staying in the car," she retorted dryly, and he chuckled.

"So, since I believe in constants, I believe that the act of becoming in love with someone is a constant."

"_Becoming _in love with someone?" she asked, and she was surprised at the slightly condescending tone in her voice. Evidently, he was too, as he looked at her with raised eyebrows, thinking over how he would explain his view to her.

"Yeah," he said simply with a shrug after several seconds. The silence descended on them again, and despite her best instincts telling her to drop this dangerous subject of 'love' with a man so complex and unpredictable that he doubled the danger just in being there, she found herself wanting to know. It was her natural curiosity that made her one of the best agents – her constant need to know more and to understand. But some part of her was a constant reminder that with Chuck, and on his terms, that curiosity could very well condemn her.

Damned constants.

"Tell me," she said, and it was halfway an order, and halfway a plea.

"…You don't just wake up one day and go 'oh look, I've fallen in love'," he explained slowly. "That's just attraction. I think love – real love - takes time to happen. So, no, I don't believe in falling in love," he repeated simply. "I believe in having it grow within you every day."

"_Growing _into love."

"Yes," her replied softly, giving her a smile as he started to get his point across. "Growing into love. Not as poetic as falling into love, of course, but more true for me. I think it starts small and gets stronger the more you get to know a person. So, growing into love is-"

"A constant?" she asked.

"A constant," he confirmed with a small nod. She smiled, watching him check his watch. He got to his feet quite suddenly, holding out his hands to help her up. "If we go back to your place now, we can probably make it through _Serenity_ once before my Ellie-Casey curfew?" he offered hopefully, and she took his hands with a soft smile.

"Ellie-Casey curfew?"

"Well, Ellie has breakdowns if _every _little thing isn't her way, and Devon can't cook her breakfast," he explained choppily.

"What's breakfast got to do with it?" she asked, confused. He scratched the back of his head and grinned, taking one of her hands and walking back up the beach.

"Right. Well. Ellie's been really stressed with everything, and every time she tries to use the kitchen in the mornings, bad things seem to happen," he said. "Accordingly, it's my turn to look after my sister."

"Couldn't Devon just go buy her something every once in a while?"

"There's the Casey part," he pointed out. "And the curfew part, come to think of it. See, since that whole kidnapping thing three weeks ago – you remember that –" he kicked at the sand as they headed back to the car. "Yeah, well, Casey rests easier when I'm home before twelve."

"Ah…" she trailed off, wondering at his thoughtful tone. "He's only looking out for you."

"Constant," he told her with a smile. She grinned.

"So I have to have you home by twelve. I think we can make that," she laughed. "Should we get pizza? Pizza and _Serenity _are going well in my mind right now…"

"Oh… Constant," he reminded her, and she narrowed her eyes and hit him gently on the shoulder. The smile didn't leave her lips, though, even as he grinned and slung an arm around her shoulder. "Pizza and _Serenity_ sounds good to me."

They took a few more steps in silence, finally reaching her Porsche, and they stopped. Her smile faded. She was in need of reassurance – just-Sarah – ignoring the agent in her telling her the foolishness of her question, her curiosity, and her weak tone.

"Chuck? …Do you actually… _like _spending time with me?"

He turned to her, an oblivious expression on his face. Then he gave her the warmest mega-watt grin she'd ever seen, and it made her feel slightly light-headed.

"Of course I do," he told her, and she knew it wasn't just a reassurance – he meant it as he said. "Always do." He patted her on the shoulder gently. "Constant," he pointed out, and with one last smile he let her go, heading to the passenger side door of her car.

She smiled to herself. He was unpredictable, complex, and dangerous, there was no denying. He could be suave, and cold, and she'd seen him miserable, furious, and aloof before as well. Then, he would be sensitive, and such a _nerd _– him and his science fiction, and his constants.

The geek-speak was fine, an element of his trade, he was poetic (he could quote Shakespeare, for christ's sake!), and he was always appealing to her better senses. He _liked _spending time with her, he didn't think bad of her at all (what was he, insane?), and he was looking out for her every step of the way, saving her from self-sabotage and from herself. And she could understand him now – his 'love' and his ideology, because it explained some of the parts of her own life lately.

He was right, and he was with her, offering pizza and a sci-fi movie, like the (somewhat romantic) nerd he was proud of being. So it didn't matter that he could be unpredictable, or that he was dangerous to her in a way no one else was. In the end, he was stable, definite – a nerd, a friend, a touchstone, a _constant_. She knew that (and him) more each day. So, that in mind, she was saying it to herself under her breath, before she would go to join him in the car, a satisfied smile on her face. What he was, what love was, and what her life there, with him, was becoming.

"Constant."

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**R&R? Knowing full well I'm only barely content with this one. It's shrug-worthy in my head. Hn.**


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